


Lord, Make Me an Instrument

by angesradieux



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angesradieux/pseuds/angesradieux
Summary: "For all the patience the Lord has granted him throughout this ordeal, his soul has not been fully cleansed and there is still something festering within. It hides behind his meek obedience and shy smiles, but it's there all the same." Set during Season 1, Episode 4. Athelstan grapples with himself and his faith as he comes to terms with his new life among the heathens.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	Lord, Make Me an Instrument

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: So here's another Athelstan-centric fic. Can you tell he's my favorite character? But it feels like he comes to terms with his new life incredibly quickly. Anyway, here's my take on him struggling to cope with everything he's been through. Hope you like it. Feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> This has been cross posted on FF
> 
> ~Anges

Forgiveness had been preached often at Lindisfarne. As Christ has forgiven all His children's sins, so, too, must those who followed Him forgive each other. It had always come easily to Athelstan. He was slow to anger and it never lasted long. How could it? Sequestered in their monastery, whole-heartedly content in his devotion to Christ and surrounded by others living lives of piety and service, what need could he have had for something as petty as a grudge?

Among the Norsemen, however, he finds himself engulfed in unfamiliar waters.

He speaks the Lord's prayer daily. _Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us_. He always pauses there to meditate. To appreciate what, exactly, he is asking for and contemplate whether he'd be pleased to receive it. Still, he is angry.

He tends to Gyda and Bjorn, as he's promised their parents he would. They're only children, even if Ragnar Lothbrock is their father. There must be _something_ redeemable in the man, because they both worship him. He tries to pray for Ragnar's safety, if not out of care for his captor, then at least concern for children who don't deserve to be orphaned. The words are bland and unenthusiastic, and if Athelstan can't even fool himself into thinking he means it, certainly God, who knows his heart better than anyone, hasn't failed to notice that the mere thought of asking for His blessings on the heathens makes the monk sick to his stomach.

Through all his mediations and reflections, Athelstan feels a fury he has never known before. It's a persistent, painful gnawing that he fears one day might devour him completely.

It's anger that drives him to refuse Bjorn's proposed trip to Kattegat. He may hide behind perfectly sensible excuses of needing to look after the farm, but deep down he knows better. He doesn't want to see the barbarians gloating as they arrive, dragging behind them captives and stolen treasures from his homeland. He can't stand to see Ragnar celebrated and congratulated for terrorizing the innocent.

And, too, he can't deny his master. But in this moment, he has denied his son. It's an uncharitable sentiment, and one he knows deep down God would condemn, but he takes just a little pleasure in it. The sting of regret comes near instantly when the boy lashes out. Athelstan sighs and watches him storm away.

He's supposed to be better than the heathens. Kinder, living a life guided by the love and grace of the Lord.

Once upon a time, that love had come so, very easily. Here? How is he to love his captors? What grace can he find to show to those who'd killed so many of his brothers, and then ripped him from his home and loaded him into a boat as nothing more than just another spoil of war, no different than the glittering jewels they'd plundered? To them, he isn't a man. Just a thing.

Who wouldn't hate them for it? But somewhere beneath the anger, he feels the tug of guilt.

He's silent as he clears the table after dinner. He tries to meditate as he works, as if there must be something that he's not already considered. Did not repentance go hand in hand with talk of forgiveness?

" _And if he sins against you seven times a day, and returns to you seven times, saying, 'I repent,' forgive him."_

Ragnar did not repent. No one does. As far as these heathens are concerned, sowing death and destruction is just the way of the world and they have done nothing wrong. So what, in truth, does Athelstan owe them? Nothing, he wants to conclude. Still, he's been through the argument at least a hundred times. It brought him no peace before and tonight is no different.

Once his duties are attended to and the children are in bed, he prays for clarity. He's been granted none thus far and he doesn't truly believe the Lord will break His silence tonight, but prayer is all he has. "Where are you, Lord?" His eyes turn skyward, searching. "Please! I want to understand. _Help me_." He finds, in the depth of his soul, that his anger is not for the heathens alone. He's tried to deny it, too afraid of the implications to give voice to the sentiment until finally it can no longer be contained.

"Why don't You answer? Have I not been faithful in my service? Not given all I had in me to give? I have loved You more than my own life! So why? Why have You abandoned me here, when I need You more than I ever have before? What have I done to deserve this?" He stares into the night so earnestly perhaps some part of him still does truly believe someone might answer.

His breath hitches as a sound disrupts the silence. He feels hope—something that has proved painfully elusive in his time with the heathens. Then he finds the source. "An owl."

His lips curl and bitter resentment burns in his stomach.

God no longer cares for him. Maybe He never did…

Athelstan swallows the hurt and rises to his feet. His shoulders are slumped in resignation as he shakes his master's son awake. "Bjorn."

He's greeted with a tired scowl. "What do you want, slave?"

"We'll go to Kattegat tomorrow. All three of us."

Grace. It comes reluctantly and there is no joy in it. Perhaps it's penance for his doubts, to deny himself and do instead what will serve another. Or maybe it's done out of fear—Athelstan wonders if he has fallen outside of God's love, and that thought terrifies him. But maybe if he can manage to resist temptation, if he just manages to be good enough instead of falling into the temptation of anger and hatred, he might once again be worthy of calling himself a child of the Lord.

He returns to his corner of the house unable to sleep. He repeats the Lord's prayer over and over again, searching in vain for some balm that might soothe his raw and battered soul. At some point he feels a wetness on his cheeks. His throat constricts and he fights it for a moment before finally giving in to desperate, miserable sobs that wrack his entire body.

Morning comes too soon and Bjorn is impatient.

He's sullen and moody and spends most of the journey berating Athelstan for slowing them down. "You should have stayed behind! I'm old enough to go by myself, and I'd be there already if it weren't for you!" The boy lashes out and kicks him.

Patience is in very short supply.

"Leave him alone!"

Before he can say anything, Gyda comes to his defense against her brother, and from then on she walks between the two of them. She has a kind spirit. Athelstan can't help but wonder how the gentleness he sees in her hasn't yet been completely snuffed out by the harshness of her world. In Gyda, he sees just a little bit of hope for his own soul, if he can manage to resist giving into despair entirely.

His master's boat has returned, but it seems their trip was ill advised. Rather than arriving to triumph and glory, Ragnar is arrested on his return.

Part of him wants to rejoice in seeing the barbarian tethered and led away. It's justice, isn't it? That he be bound and taken captive, just as he had done to Athelstan and the few among his brothers Ragnar's men had seen fit to spare? But Athelstan doesn't see a criminal. He sees people. He sees anxious children who need their father and a wife in despair for her husband. And although his master is all bravado and bluster—a far cry from the timid monks who'd cowered in the hands of their captors—perhaps Athelstan also sees something of himself there, too.

Ragnar is, for all his cruelty, a man who is loved.

As much as Athelstan wants to summon the anger that's burned so hot within him for so long and celebrate his master's misfortune, he finds he can't. Eyes drift to the Heavens.

Clarity.

He'd prayed for it, hadn't he? Still, when he'd contemplated reconciling his faith with his feelings for his master, he hadn't bargained for the concern he can't help but feel for this family that's become just a little more human to him. And maybe for his master, too, although he's still too angry to admit that much. Nonetheless, he offers a silent prayer of thanks to the Lord, and also one for Ragnar's safety. The latter isn't quite as hollow as similar prayers have been in the past.

He could have avoided the trial. Gyda and Bjorn have Lagertha to look after them, and he could have easily made the excuse that he would have been much more useful tending the farm. Ragnar isn't _his_ family, after all. If he's put to death, so be it. What does Athelstan care what becomes of him? He's brought the children to Kattegat to see him and he's prayed for him. Surely, Athelstan has done his Christian duty and owes the man nothing more. But, that's the easiest argument and Athelstan finds he doesn't truly believe it.

His presence won't matter to Ragnar one way or the other, but still he feels he must remain.

"He's in chains!" The anguish in Bjorn's cry stirs something within him and he instinctively rests a comforting hand on the child's shoulder. Bjorn hesitates just a moment before slapping it away. He turns to scowl at the slave but he can't seem to muster his usual contempt.

Gyda is more receptive to what little reassurance Athelstan can offer.

_Please, Lord. Spare these children from their father's death._

He finally finds it in him to pray for Ragnar's deliverance in full sincerity, even if it isn't for his master's sake.

Ragnar's life is spared. His family rejoices, but Athelstan cannot. He finds he doesn't feel much of anything, neither bitterness nor anger nor happiness. He just feels spent. If he's honest with himself, it's a welcome reprieve. He plods along behind them in silence. At least the trip back to the farmhouse is more pleasant than the journey to Kattegat—Bjorn is too occupied with his father to bother kicking him.

Ale flows freely in celebration. Athelstan holds a pitcher, prepared to attend to his master's guests as needed, but otherwise doesn't partake. He fades into the background, unnoticed until someone's cup has run dry. For all the patience the Lord has granted him throughout this ordeal, his soul has not been fully cleansed and there is still something festering within. It hides behind his meek obedience and shy smiles, but it's there all the same.

It rears its head as his master raises a glass and toasts to freedom.

His lips thin and for the first time since their return, his eyes meet his master's. He can only manage the most strained of smiles as he's summoned with his pitcher of ale and it abruptly vanishes when he returns to his seat.

Athelstan feels his master's presence beside him even before he turns his head to see him take the empty seat. His back stiffens but he doesn't object. He even manages to give a smile. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but fatigue is enough to explain that away.

A cup is pushed into his hands.

"Will you drink with me, priest?"

He's grateful for the ale. It gives him something to focus on that isn't Ragnar. He glances down at the cup, taking a moment to gather himself more fully before coaxing his features into a more convincing grin. "Of course." He brings the cup to his lips.

It's just a little sip. Athelstan has already learned the dangers of drunkenness among the heathens. For now, though, it's enough to satisfy his master.

"Thank you, for taking care of the children."

As if he'd had any say in the matter. As if Ragnar had asked rather than giving a command to his slave. Deep down, though, he knows he'd have done it, anyway. He would never have had it in him to abandon two children to fend for themselves. Ragnar knows it, too. His gentle nature has already become apparent to the heathens and they have no problem abusing it.

Athelstan just keeps smiling. "I promised I would." As if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if he hadn't hated himself for it. As if he hadn't spent the entire time wrestling with himself and his faith, trying desperately to cling to the last vestiges of the kind and patient monk he used to be while positively drowning in self-loathing and anger.

"You're a good Christian."

Ragnar claps him on the shoulder, laughing as the slave jumps and spills his ale. "Even if you do startle as easily as a rabbit." His master tousles his hair as one might a favored dog and rejoins his friends.

Athelstan stares after him. He's not such a good Christian anymore. The thought pains him, but it's true. He hopes he might be able to change that, but it will be a long and difficult road among the heathens. It had been so much easier before Ragnar had taught him to hate.

Amid amiable chatter and raucous laughter, chaos descends.

He hears the screams and tastes blood in the air. His stomach twists into knots as he's brought back to Lindisfarne. And yet what he feels isn't fear, but rather determination. He moves without thinking, but it's not his brothers he's looking for. It's Gyda and Bjorn. He's far less apt to protect them than either of their parents—even if he had an axe he wouldn't know what to do with it, but he is driven by instinct, logic be damned. Athelstan counts himself lucky that Bjorn has had so much ale. Bjorn lashes out and kicks at him, demanding to help his father, but Athelstan's hand on his shoulder is firm as he guides the boy away. He ushers them out the back of the house and to the shed, away from the violence, ignoring the boy's accusations of cowardice.

When someone approaches, he places himself between the intruder and the children. Except it's not an intruder at all. He relaxes and steps aside as he recognizes the blood-spattered face of his master. Their eyes meet and Ragnar gives a nod in thanks.

He crouches down and gathers Bjorn and Gyda into a hug.

As he watches, Athelstan can't find it in him to hate any of them. Not even Ragnar, even though part of him still wants to.

His heart thumps in his chest and the rush of adrenaline leaves him feeling a little bit dazed as he follows them back to the house. His master's family is unharmed, but not everyone was so fortunate. The heathens rage and cry for vengeance. It's as though a veil has been lifted and Athelstan sees clearly for the first time since he's arrived.

Knut is dead, killed to avenge Lagertha's honor. Ragnar's men have died in retribution for the death of Knut. And there is still more to come as these men demand yet another eye for an eye. Where does it end?

It doesn't. It can't. Not until the whole world has gone blind. Without forgiveness there is no escape from the endless cycle of violence and suffering.

No one says anything when Athelstan retreats. He's barely worth their attention on a good day and he's certainly worthless in talk of battle.

He is left alone to turn his thoughts to Heaven, to pray and meditate upon the grave warning his Lord has sent him. Anger fades, giving way to grief. He allows himself to weep for himself and his brothers, even as he knows he must let it go. The tears are healing somehow, as if the poison is being purged from his soul.

In the morning when he sees his master, he serves him breakfast and says, "I forgive you." Ragnar brushes him away and laughs it off as just a bit of nonsense from his Christian slave. Rather than taking offense, Athelstan is at peace.


End file.
